


How this chapter ends

by BeadyPenguin



Series: The end is never the end [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeadyPenguin/pseuds/BeadyPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the development of Franky and Bridget's relationship after Franky is released from Wentworth in 3x12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a very long time since someone had made Bridget breakfast. She leaned against the kitchen door frame for a moment, taking in the sight of the woman she’d woken up next to buzzing about her kitchen. Eggs, milk and flour had been beaten into a batter. Franky dipped a fork into the mixture, checking the consistency as it flowed off the tines. She grinned when she saw Bridget, an irresistible expression that managed to be both shy and lascivious.

Bridget padded across the cool tiles into the waiting embrace. “Good morning.”

“It is. That’s hot.” Franky said, gesturing at her crumpled red and black check shirt, which Bridget was wearing. The unabashed glance down her loosely buttoned shirt and the pat on her bum stirred a sense of vitality within Bridget. They kissed; a few sweet seconds so easily spiraling into more.

“Good morning,” Bridget whispered.

“You said that already.”

“I did?”

“Mmmm. You hungry?”

“Yeah. What are you making?”

“Pancakes. Been craving ‘em for weeks. That okay?”

Bridget nodded. “Can I help?”

“I got it covered.”

Bridget sat at the table. She raised her arms aloft and stretched contentedly. Her muscles hummed pleasantly with the memory of last night’s exertions. Franky was a natural in the kitchen, she thought - every movement was purposeful, swift but not rushed. The butter in the pan was hot and ready. Pour. Swirl. Flip. Transfer to plate. Repeat.

Bridget admired her chef’s commanding presence, all the more remarkable considering Franky was wearing just her t-shirt and underwear, and her signature eye make-up had lost a lot of its intensity overnight. Bridget’s mind wandered, retreading the last few days. Whirlwind, she thought to herself. Her resignation from Wentworth was just one of the pieces of wreckage scattered by Ferguson’s chaos, though it scarcely bore comparison with the hell Franky had endured. But last night, all that negative energy dissipated, the skies now seemed clear and bright. It occurred to her that maybe they were caught in the eye of the storm, a temporary relief, but at least they were in it together. That was all that mattered for now.

“Penny?”

“Huh?” Two plates, each with a stack of fluffy pancakes, and a smaller plate with thinly sliced bananas and strawberries had materialised on the table.

“For your thoughts. You kinda zoned out for a minute.”

Bridget’s thumb brushed away some flour that had settled on Franky’s cheek. “I was thinking about how crazy everything’s been.”

“Crazy, that your professional diagnosis?” Franky smiled, turning her face to leave a kiss on Bridget’s hand. “Try this.”

“That’s good,” Bridget said between mouthfuls of pancake. She layered slivers of pancake and fruit together, and speared them on a fork which she offered to Franky. Breakfast passed in this sensual manner. When both plates were cleared, Bridget straddled Franky’s lap. They made out like giddy teenagers.

Franky grumbled. “I wish we could do this all day. I have to report to the Correctional Service. And I should stop by my cousin’s house.”

“Your cousin’s, Is that the address on your Parole Order?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it…” Bridget began gingerly, picking her next words with care.

“My cousin’s right. Husband, two kids, a dog. Model citizen,” Franky reassured.

Bridget knew the statistics for recidivism, better than most people. She’d worked with many prisoners who’d found themselves back inside after breaking parole. She’d also worked with many who’d made it and forged a new life for themselves after prison, she reminded herself. But it was tough. She’d ask Franky to move in with her in a heartbeat if she thought it would keep her safe and give her the best chance. But in her head she knew this was a fairytale fantasy that would never survive in the harshness of the real world.

“Gidget, I don’t want to rush things. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Neither do I. I haven’t lived with anyone for a long time,” Bridget admitted. She left the sentence hang in the air, inviting Franky to press further if she wanted.

Franky chose not to pursue it. “I was living with too many women. I gotta adjust. Last night, I couldn’t sleep. Too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

Franky nodded. “At night you’d hear women crying or fucking or snoring. I was lonely, but I was never alone, y’know?”

Bridget listened, knowing that she’d never truly understand. “What time’s your CCS appointment?”

“Two.” The glimmer of realisation across Bridget’s face that they had a few hours was intercepted by Franky. “I’ll need this back,” she said, tugging at the buttons on the shirt. Franky followed Bridget’s gaze to the window. “Blinds closed?” She lifted Bridget onto the table. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Perched on the table with Franky looking straight at her, Bridget deliberately crossed and uncrossed her legs. The shirt hang open at the front, showing her belly and hinting at her breasts. The nakedness of Franky’s desire for her was so stark as to be bordering on intimidating. Her eyes had grown big and black, the outline of her nipples strained her t-shirt, and her tongue darted out from between her lips, betraying her hunger.

In a flash, Franky was between her legs, kissing and licking her. She gasped and grabbed the edge of the table behind her for support. She closed her eyes, letting herself fall completely into bliss. Franky was inside her now, too; her searing touch igniting her passion and soothing the aches of longing and loneliness she had been nursing for too long. Release, when it came, was incredible. She imagined herself to be soaring high above the world - everything save the woman she had fallen in love with had melted into a distant blur far below.

Her eyes opened to see grey eyes looking back. The lips hovering just above hers kissed her. Despite all the shit Franky had been through, there was a part of her that was almost unbearably tender. It didn’t yet have a voice of its own, but it spoke to Bridget every time Franky pressed their foreheads together gently, or traced the laughter lines around her eyes.

Franky’s body was like a tapestry of tattoos and scars; each weaved a chapter of her story. Some were historical, others like the one above her breast, were recent. Bridget touched them all with her lips or fingertips in a gesture of acceptance. She wrapped her legs around Franky’s standing form. Her head dipped to take Franky’s breasts into her mouth. Her hand crept lower on Franky’s belly, lightly trailing her nails across the skin. Gooseflesh and a gasp of delight were her rewards.

“Touch me.”

Her hand moved lower, and lower. Until… there! Franky’s irises flashed brightly. She moaned. Bridget was pulled into a deep kiss. Her fingers, now thick with arousal, stroked the intimate flesh of her lover waiting until she was wet enough and ready enough. Her tongue thrust into the mouth that kissed her as she pushed her fingers inside her. In what felt like barely any time at all, Franky shuddered and fell heavily against her, breathing _I’m coming_ against her ear. She stayed inside Franky while everything around her fingers pulsed and trembled in a bodily roar of pleasure.

“I gotta get ready,” Franky sighed, still leaning against the table for support.

“Shower’s through there. Use whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

“You want any help?” Bridget asked, leaving the word _help_ deliberately ambiguous.

Franky grinned and scrunched her nose. “Rain check? Being alone in the shower is something else I’ve been craving.”

Franky insisted on getting to her appointment under her own steam. She had some cash and Bridget’s phone numbers and promised to call if she needed anything. They kissed goodbye on the doorstep.

“Can I see you later?”

Bridget didn’t contain her smile. “I’ll be here. Good luck today.”


	2. Clouds

Bridget had lived in this house for ten years.  It was comfortable, immaculate, and filled with nice things.  She loved all those interior design magazines and TV shows and had, over the years, honed her DIY skills and developed her eye.  Her living room, for instance, looked like it could grace the pages of House & Garden, with its accent wall, original floorboards and tiffany style lamps.  In spite of all her efforts it had remained a house, not a home; a bricks-and-mortar wax apple - life-like, but not alive.

That wasn’t how it felt today though.  Today felt like the windows had been thrown open and life had gusted through, leaving vibrancy where there had been sterility.  Nowhere was this more evident than in her bedroom.  The puddles of clothes and the rumpled bedsheets brought the room together in a way that the colour-matched throw cushions never could.  She picked up the pillow Franky had slept on.  It smelled like her.  She pressed it against her nose, inhaling the scent as she remembered the last night.  She plumped the pillow and made the bed.  Cleo jumped up, sniffing the air with feline delicacy, settling on Franky’s pillow.

Bridget patted her head.  “You like her too, huh?”

Something on the floor next to the bed caught Bridget’s eye.  It was one of Franky’s necklaces.  It must have come loose when they had sex.  Thin silver rope chain, with a silver and red pendant.  It didn’t scream “Franky” to her, but then again, was that simply because until yesterday, she’d only seen her wearing a teal tracksuit?  The big things in Franky’s life - the deep dark secrets that most people would keep concealed in the early days of a relationship - she already knew.  She knew about them even before she’d laid eyes on Franky, everything set out chronologically in a file compiled by various professionals over the years: her abusive mother, her absent father, her crime.  It was the little things like this necklace that were a mystery. It felt like starting a relationship in reverse Bridget mused, no doubt one of the many reasons why therapist/ex-patient romances were taboo. As much as she had believed in that taboo, that it was essential to protect the integrity of a patient's therapy, her connection to Franky felt so right. How could something that felt so right, so pure, be wrong? Her head and heart spinning in opposite directions was dizzying. She was going to have to talk about this with someone before it tore her apart at the seams.

Carefully, she laid the necklace into the drawer of the bedside table.  It had stood empty since Jen.  She’d met Jen at a party fifteen years ago- one of those interminable events where everyone else seemed to be part of a blissful couple.  They’d literally bumped into each other at the drinks table, red wine spilling over Jen’s nude coloured dress.  An immediate friendship was struck over Bridget’s gallant (and awkward and ultimately unsuccessful) attempts to dab away the stain.  Over the next ten years they were friends, lovers, partners, and finally strangers.  There were lots of empty drawers in the house - Jen had taken all her things with her when she left.   It was probably better that way, Bridget thought, to have no reminders than to live in a mausoleum.  It had been almost five years since they'd said goodbye.  She’d had girlfriends since, of course, but nothing that had lasted. No one had stirred her like Franky, or touched her like Franky, or saw her so clearly as Franky.

The numbers on the digital clock rolled over to 14:00.  She wondered how Franky was getting on.  Little pangs of longing mixed with excitement tickled her insides.  She lay back on the bed, closing her eyes and letting her hand retrace the dance they had done last night.  The phone rang, an unwelcome disruption. She picked up quickly, hoping to hear a certain voice.

“Hello?” she answered hoarsely.

“Uh, Bridget?  Is that you?”

“Yes.”  Bridget cleared her throat, swallowing her disappointment.  “Hello, Vera.  What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things.  I have a meeting next week with the Board.  About Ferguson.”

“You said she was arrested after the fire?”

“She was.  But there’s no evidence linking her to it.  She’s claiming that Warner set the fire and that all she did was save Anderson’s baby.”

Bridget snorted with disbelief.

“I don’t know what will happen with the police investigation.  I don’t want her back at Wentworth - she’s done too much damage.”  Vera paused.  “You said you’d support me if I went to the Board.  Will you?”

“Yes, absolutely.  I don’t have any concrete proof, but I’ll support you to protect the women.”

“Thank you,” Vera said, with genuine gratitude in her voice.  “I’ve collected statements from prisoners and staff, I thought you could help me piece together some sort of psychological explanation.  Could you come in sometime over the next few days?”

“Sure.  My schedule is pretty light.”  

“About that,” Vera began with a conciliatory tone, “I would like to recommend to the Board that they reinstate you.”

“Er-”

“You made such a positive impact on the women.  Mr Fletcher, too.  The last few weeks have been difficult for me.”  Vera sighed audibly.  “I regret going to Ferguson and making those allegations.”

“I appreciate that.  I’d need to think about it.”

“Okay.  Could you come in on Friday afternoon?”

“Yeah.  I’ll see you then.  Bye.”

Immediately, Bridget punched in a new number.  “Hi, Dan.  It’s Bridget.  Look, can we meet this week, before Friday?  Yes and no.  Great, thanks.  I’ll see you then.”

Night began to fall.  The day had felt extraordinarily long; anticipation a brake that made the seconds grind slower and slower, and minutes and hours stretch longer and longer.  Bridget swiped her phone into action - checking the time again.  Was it really only seven o’clock?  She sighed - in any case she hadn’t made a definite plan to see Franky tonight.  She tried to imagine where she might be now - it was both strange and wonderful to think of her out in the world.  It was a stark contrast to those long, fretful nights, haunted by Franky’s prophecy that they only way she’d leave Wentworth would be in a box.

The phone buzzed.  New message.  Unknown caller - Bridget’s heart skipped hopefully.  

_Gidget, can I come over?  PS I bought a phone.  F._

_Yes!  G._  She tapped out hastily.   _Send._

She nearly tripped over herself in her rush to open the door.  It was Franky, bag slung over one shoulder, layers of low cut shirts, looking sexy as hell.

“Here I am.”  Franky’s tongue played between her teeth, the way it did when she was deliberately provoking a reaction from Bridget.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Bridget melted when Franky gave her a rose, a sweetly romantic gesture that was somehow the perfect counterpoint to the carnality lurking in that gaze.  She flung her arms around her neck, pulling her into a kiss.  She loved those hands roaming over her body, possessive and hungry, making no secret of their wish to have her.

Hot breath in her ear.  “I fucking love your arse,” Franky whispered as she squeezed the round flesh.  For a moment, Bridget was fixed by grey eyes hunting for the effect of the coarse language.  She couldn’t remember ever being wanted so nakedly as this.  It turned her on.  She pushed Franky against the wall, sucking her tongue into her mouth in a deep kiss filled with promises and desire.

Neither of them noticed the SUV across the street, that had sat as a silent witness the whole time.  Nor did they notice it roll past slowly, like a gathering storm cloud, as Bridget tugged Franky indoors.  

 

 


	3. Darkening

“So how’d it go yesterday?”

“With the parole officer?”

Bridget stroked her fingers through Franky’s hair, which was still damp from the shower.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  Better than I was expecting,” Franky added.  “I’ve gotta do some community service - conditions of my parole.”

“Do you know what?”

“Nah.  There’s a bunch of questions first - y’know, to find out if there’s any work you can’t do.  He said I’d probably get litter picking.”  She shrugged.  “It’s only a few hours a week, so I’ll have time to finish my diploma and look for a job.”

That’s my girl, Bridget thought to herself.

Franky shifted to lay her head in Bridget’s lap.  “Gidget, did they really get rid of ya?”

“Technically I resigned.  Though Ferguson didn’t give me much of a choice,” Bridget smiled ruefully.  “I have my own private practice as well as the work I do - I did - for Corrections.”

“Private practice?  People chewing your ear off about how shit their life is and paying you for it?”

Bridget chuckled.  “Well, it’s not quite like that.”

“So how come you’re not seeing ‘em today?”

“I’m taking a few days off from my patients.”  Bridget played with the fingers intertwined with her own, elated when Franky brought her hand to her lips and kissed it.

“Because of me?”

The note of hope in the question was well-camouflaged, but Bridget was so attuned to Franky that she heard it as clear as a bell.  “Yeah,” she answered, simply and honestly.

“I love it when you smile - when it reaches your eyes.”

This was the second time in twenty-four hours that Franky had said that she loved something about her.  Bridget squelched the curious professional psychotherapist inside her, the voice that wanted to probe around the edges of these statements.  She knew Franky had as much capacity for love as anyone else, but that loving part had retreated from a lifetime of abuses, and it was going to take time to unfurl.  Everything Bridget needed to know right now could be found in the softness of the eyes looking up at her.

“So, do you have an office in town for your patients?”

“Oh, no.  I see them here.  I haven’t given you a proper tour yet, have I?”

“You’ve shown me plenty,” Franky quipped.

“Come on.”  Bridget led Franky by the hand, eventually they reached her “work” rooms - her study, which adjoined the room she saw her patients in.

“Fancy.”  Franky spun the high-backed leather chair around.

“My dad used to say that you know you’ve made it if you sit on a fancy chair.”

Bridget’s study was her sanctuary.  It was the place she came to to recuperate from emotionally draining sessions - actually every session was emotionally draining in some way.  Her years of training and experience enabled her to remain a consummate professional in front of her patients, no matter how anguished, tortured or hopeless they felt.  But sometimes the people she treated had been shattered into so many pieces, that her own heart would break too.  It was to her study, filled with personal artefacts, that she would go to collect herself.  She let Franky explore.  Perhaps she was seeking some kind of parity - an opportunity to show Franky her story in the same way that she had read about hers.

“This your family?”  Franky asked, picking up one of the photos.

“Yeah, that’s my mum and dad.  They’re both passed now.”

Franky regarded her silently for a moment, her arm found its way around Bridget’s back.  It was very comforting.

“This is me, my brother and my sister when we were kids.”

“No way!  You’re so fucking cute!”  Franky grabbed the picture frame for a closer look.  Three blonde-haired children, rosy-cheeked and pudgy with puppy fat.  The little boy was on a trike, his angelic expression belied the way he looked poised to pedal into his two sisters.  “You’re the young ‘un?”

“Yeah.  Eleanor’s the eldest, and that’s James.”

Little Bridget, with a pudding-bowl haircut and dungarees, was holding Eleanor’s hand and clutching a doll tightly to her chest.  “Such a dyke,” Franky winked.

Bridget laughed.  “I guess so.”

“You close to them?”

“To El, yes.  I’ve never had a really easy relationship with James.  I love him, but we fight like cat and dog.”

Attention turned to the sturdy oak bookcases against the wall.  “You read all these?”  Franky trailed her finger along the spines.  Hardbacked, weighty tomes for the most part - academic textbooks on psychology, psychiatry, ethics.  There were a few popular science books sprinkled in too.  Franky picked one off the shelf deliberately.

“That one I’ve definitely read.”

“ _The psychology of transference_.  Y’know, I’ve been thinking about that.  You said it’s where romantic feelings can develop.”

“I did.”

“Then why _transference_?”

“Sometimes the patient redirects feelings they have for someone significant in their life onto their therapist.  That’s called transference.  When a therapist does it, it’s called countertransference.  It’s not always a romantic feeling, it can be many types of feelings.”

Franky cocked her head to one side, assimilating the information.  “So, I remind you of someone?”

Bridget weighed up how to answer.  She’d thought about it in depth over the last weeks, of course, but not how to structure the story in a way that someone else might be able to follow it.  She decided to start at the beginning.  “When I was a kid, I had this friend: Harriet, everyone called her Harry.  She was a older than me and I completely idolised her.”

“She was your girlfriend?”

“Nah.  I had a massive crush, but Harry liked boys.”

“What happened?”

“Harry had a shitty home life.  She started getting into trouble - you know kicked out of school, shoplifting, stealing cars, things like that.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Harry ended up in the system, just bouncing in and out.  The last time she got out, she told me she was never going back - she couldn’t take it anymore.”  Bridget’s throat tightened.

“You can tell me.”

“Her step-dad beat her mum.  One night he had her pinned to the ground, just knocking her around.  Harry hit him over the head with a bottle.  He called the cops.  She went straight back inside.  She didn’t come out again.”  Bridget didn’t need to say anything else - Franky understood.

“Jesus, Gidget.  Come here.”

“I was seventeen when it happened.  I was so angry for a long time afterwards - that the whole system failed her.”  Bridget continued.  “Harry never had a chance from anyone.  When I first read your file, you reminded me of her.  A good person who’d been through shit.  You were smart like she was and you have this magnetic charisma like she did.  I felt a connection with you.”

“You work with prisoners because of Harry.  And I’ve taken that away from you.”

Bridget captured the regret-laden face between her hands.  “You haven’t taken anything from me.  Ferguson did that.”  She caressed the soft skin beneath her thumbs.  “Franky, I want you to know that my feelings for you are because of who you are.  Maybe it started as transference, but I’m way past that.”

Franky bent her head to meet Bridget’s lips with her own.  As they drew apart, Franky took in a steadying breath.  The air crackled, like they were on the cusp of something new.  Bridget swallowed nervously, her mouth having run dry.

“Fuck.”  Franky’s phone vibrated, disturbing the moment.  She levered it out of her skinny jeans and cast an apologetic glance.  “My cousin.”

Bridget motioned that she was going to give Franky some privacy, but Franky curled a finger into her belt loop, winking at her to stay.

“Hey.  Yeah, I’m at Gidget’s - why?”

The soft inflection that graced the word Gidget spoke volumes.  Franky had obviously talked about her, about them, with her cousin.  Bridget smiled, but then the tone of the conversation changed and the colour started to drain from Franky’s face.

“What?  The cops?  Did they say why?  I dunno, Gem.  I really don’t.  Yeah, okay.  I’ll see you.”

“What’s going on?”

“The cops want to talk to me about the fire.  I already gave them a statement.  What the fuck.”

Bridget clamped down on her emotions, not allowing herself to tumble into panic alongside Franky.  “They probably just want to check a few things.  You did nothing wrong, it’ll be alright,” she soothed.

Franky shook her head and started pacing.  “Or that fucking Freak told them I did it.”

“But you didn’t.  You risked your life, you saved the baby.  You’re a hero in this, Franky.”

“You don’t understand.  She’s-”

“A psychopath,” Bridget finished.

“No.  Yes.  She recorded me telling you about Meg Jackson.”

“What?”  Bridget blanched.

“She gave it to Mister Jackson.  I thought he was gonna kill me, I guess that’s what she wanted.  If the cops know about it, I’m sure she can paint a different picture for them.”

Bridget was in shock; she realised it was not possible to overestimate the depths of sadism and danger Ferguson posed, especially now that she had very little left to lose.  She braced herself against the desk, thinking through their options, while Franky paced and did the same.

“I should go in and talk to the police.”

“We can get you a lawyer.”

Franky shook her head.  “Not to make a voluntary statement - it’ll make me look guilty.  I can’t deal with this hanging over me, I gotta find out what they want.  Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will.”

 


	4. Storm

Bridget cracked her knuckles and glanced at the clock on the waiting room wall, then down the corridor to the interview room that Franky had been taken to.  Again.  Franky had been with the detectives for more than thirty minutes.  The clerk smiled at her sympathetically, as if to say, _It might be a while yet_.  She looked for a distraction among yesterday’s newspapers and the dog-eared magazines.  She spied a half-finished Sudoku, mentally filling in the rest of the grid, to while away the time.

 

“Thank you, Ms Doyle.  You’ve been very helpful.  Here’s my card if you remember anything else.”

 

“You alright?”

 

“Yeah, can we get out of here?”

 

In the parking lot, Franky clung onto Bridget.  Bridget wrapped the trembling woman in her arms, simply holding her until the anxiety began to dissipate.

 

“They asked me about Bea.  And Warner.  And the officer who died.  And Ferguson.  Did I see Jess?  When did me and Bea split up?  How long were we separated?”  Bridget tried to keep up with how quickly the words were flowing; she stroked Franky’s back soothingly.  “Ferguson must’ve twisted this onto Bea.  Fuck.”

 

“You don’t know that for sure,” Bridget said, trying to maintain an even tone.

 

“I know Ferguson is capable of anything.  I’m gonna have to talk to Bea.”

 

“I’m going to Wentworth on Friday.  I have a meeting with Vera Bennett about Ferguson.  I’ll find out as much as I can then.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Vera doesn’t want Ferguson back working there.”

 

“How is that even possible?  She’s a fucking psycho freak.”

 

“I know that.  But so far there’s been no proof, no reliable witnesses.  Take Jodie as an example - nothing that she says about Ferguson will carry any weight on its own because Ferguson destroyed her.”

 

Franky’s face fell.  “Jodie - that’s my fault.  We pushed her into the complaint.  I should’ve told Bea to leave it.”

 

“It’s not your fault.  It’s Ferguson.”  Bridget squeezed Franky’s hands tightly.  “We’re going to get through this.”

 

They sat in the car for a few minutes.  Bridget swore she could hear the whirring inside Franky’s head, wondering whether she should speak or not.  She decided not to in the end.  Just as she was about to turn the key in the ignition, Franky reached out and stopped her.

 

“Gidget, thank you for coming with me.”

 

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

 

Franky leaned over and kissed her then.  Bridget melted into the embrace.

 

“How do you make me feel so safe?”

 

There wasn’t really an answer, and Bridget didn’t try to formulate one.  “Would you go out with me tonight?”

 

Franky’s face transformed from contemplative to happy in an instant.  “You mean, on a date?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I would.  Where?”

 

“Dinner?  There’s a few places in town I’d like to check out.  What sort of food do you like?”

 

Franky shrugged.  “Anything that isn’t prison issue boil in the bag.  I’m easy.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bridget winked.

 

*****

 

Bridget felt strangely nervous as she stood outside Franky’s cousin’s house.  It had been a long time since she’d experienced first date butterflies like this.  She pushed the buzzer and smoothed her dress.  A woman answered - a little shorter than Franky, but there was a definite resemblance - she was balancing a baby on her hip.

 

“Hiya, you must be Bridget.  I’m Gem.”  Somehow they managed a sort of handshake.  “Franky!”  Gem yelled inside.  “She takes her bloody time,” she grinned.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Bridget smiled warmly, letting the little boy grasp her finger.

 

“Come in.  Excuse the mess.”  Gem ushered Bridget inside, sweeping the path before them of the crayons, toy cars and building bricks.

 

“Hey.  Wow.”  Franky drawled after she emerged from another room.

 

Those butterflies kicked into overdrive when Bridget clapped her eyes on her rakish girlfriend, her pulse quickened when Franky kissed her on the cheek.  “I like your shoes.”  She felt naked under the gaze that travelled slowly up her body.  Earlier, she’d worried about whether she was too dressed-up, whether Franky would think her a little silly.

 

Even the most oblivious observer would have noticed the sparks of desire flying about the room.  Gem coughed politely.  “So, what are you doing this evening?”

 

“Dinner,” Franky said absently, her arms circling Bridget’s waist.

 

“I remember when me and Mark used to go out for dinner,” Gem grinned, bouncing the baby on her knee.  “So, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“I wouldn’t wait up,” Franky winked.  She hugged Gem and the baby goodbye.

 

*****

 

“This is alright,” Franky declared of the restaurant.  It was one of those trendy concept places much fêted in the local entertainment guides - serving sharing plates of South East Asian food and frequented by bright-eyed young things.  A couple of months ago, Bridget might have felt uncomfortably outside the target demographic, but being in love with Franky had given her this sense of invincibility.  It was very freeing.

 

They had a table in the corner by the window, candle-lit, intimate.  The wine had arrived.  Franky swirled the Merlot around the glass, taking in the bouquet in a sophisticated manner.  She closed her eyes and took a sip.  Bridget could see that she was just holding the taste on her tongue.

 

“Do you know much about wine?”

 

Franky cracked open one eye and smiled.  “Nah.  I learned how to taste wine for that show.  And this tastes fucking amazing compared to the grog I’ve been drinking for years.  I used to drink beer.”

 

Bridget raised an eyebrow.  “So, why did we order the wine?”

 

“I want to share something with you tonight.”  Franky was being flirtatious, though Bridget felt sure that she could detect an undercurrent of something else.  But there was no need to push for discovery; the evening was lovely, just as it was.

 

Dinner was fun - loads of different things to try out and feed each other with.  They were sensual at times, and playful at others.  The wine buzzed pleasantly in their bodies.  Despite their slightly different cultural reference points, conversation flowed naturally.  Bridget tingled with the excitement of being with someone who genuinely wanted to know her.

 

Franky had already asked a bunch of getting to know you type questions.  She hesitated before asking, “How old are you?”

 

“Forty six.”

 

Franky smiled crookedly.  “That means we break the half plus seven rule.”

 

“The what?”

 

“The rule for age gaps - you know, for relationships that are respectable in polite society.  Half the oldest age - twenty three - then add seven - thirty - the younger person has to be older than this.”

 

“Is this really a thing?”

 

“It’s totally scientific, see it’s on Urban Dictionary,” Franky said, tapping into her phone.

 

“But you’re twenty eight,” Bridget chuckled, remembering the detail from Franky’s file.  “So, we’re debauched?”

 

“Nah, not us.  Just you.  And I like it.”  Franky dropped her napkin and bent down under the table to pick it up.  An _accidental_ brush of Franky’s hand against Bridget’s calf elicited a shudder.  “Do you want to get out of here?”

 

*****

 

They strolled into the evening air in the vague direction of a taxi stand.  With Franky’s arm around her, Bridget was acutely aware of her warmth, her scent, the curves nestling against her own.  It was humid.  The sky draped over them thickly, like it was just waiting to burst.

 

“It’s gonna rain,” Franky observed.

 

They turned down a quiet side street.  Unable to rein in her desire any longer, Bridget pinned Franky against a wall.  Her hands stole inside Franky’s jacket, fondling the breasts through her shirt.  Their lips came together.  Bridget moaned softly when she felt a hand slip under the hem of her dress to tease the inside of her thighs.  Spots of rain started to fall.

 

“Told you it’d rain.  We’re going to get wet.”

 

“I’m already wet.”  Bridget guided the hand between her legs higher, until Franky gasped.  “I want you.”

 

They made a dash to the taxi stand.  A couple of guys were queued ahead of them.  One, with his back turned, was loudly telling a story to his mate.  He made an expansive gesture with his arms, knocking Bridget off-balance.  The man didn’t acknowledge his mistake.

 

Franky jabbed him in the back with her finger.  “Watch what you’re doing.”

 

“What?”  The man snapped, sizing up his aggressor.

 

“It’s alright, Franky,” Bridget said, sensing that old flash of anger.

 

“You just whacked my girlfriend with your fucking arm.  You wanna apologise to her?”

 

Genuinely contrite, the man apologised.  “I’m sorry.  I’m big and clumsy.  I didn’t notice.”

 

"He's also pissed," his mate chimed in.  "Can't hold his beer."

 

“Thank you, it’s okay,” Bridget smiled, though she was really smiling at the way Franky had called her _my girlfriend_ without hesitation.

 

A taxi pulled up to the stand.  Franky stared at the guys in front, challenging them not to give up their spot.  Bridget had to admire Franky's instinctive morality.

 

“You girls go for this one,” the clumsy man said.  “Have a good night.”

 

*****

 

The rain was falling faster now, the wind had picked up speed and carried the drops almost horizontally.  These pelted and buffeted their car, a warm cocoon safe against the elements.

 

“Girlfriend?” Bridget asked, after giving the driver directions.

 

“Yeah,” Franky smiled.  She took a noticeably deep breath.  “I love you.”

 

Bridget hadn’t imagined the effect hearing those words would have on her.  Her insides were jumbled up with joy.  “I love you.”

 

Their eyes were locked on each other for the rest of the journey.  Not wanting to wait for change, Bridget gave the driver an extremely generous tip.  They scurried to the front door.  A couple of flowerpots on the porch had fallen over and smashed.

 

“Fucking storm,” Franky muttered, moving the debris with her foot.

 

Franky stood behind her, protecting her from the rain now bucketing down on them, Bridget fumbled with the key.  “Fucking door.”

 

“Let me help you,” came a breath hot against her ear.

 

Once inside, they started kissing passionately, using furniture, walls and the banisters to help them stumble towards the bedroom.  They faced the mirror.  Bridget watched Franky’s reflection shake her hair loose of its hair tie and pins.  Then she watched, her breath increasingly ragged with anticipation, as her girlfriend stood behind her and pulled the zip at the back of her dress down just a little.  Warm hands crept under the shoulder straps and squeezed her breasts, she was fascinated by the way her dress moved as those hands worked magic underneath.

 

“Tell me what you want,” Franky whispered to her, her lips nuzzling her earlobe.

 

“I want you to come in my mouth.”  Bridget pushed Franky onto the bed, stripping her of her clothes.  She lay on top of her, kissing her for a while, her knee prising a gap between Franky’s legs.  She moved lower, leaving open mouthed kisses on tattooed breasts, deliberately swirling her tongue against the nipples for the pleasure of her audience.

 

Franky’s pupils were now massively dilated, her cheeks were reddened and she was grinding wantonly against Bridget’s leg.  Bridget was in no mood to hurry though.  The body now a writhing captive beneath her had always left her in a state of arousal ever since they’d first met.  She wanted to take her time and enjoy Franky’s strength and softness.  She kissed the delicate skin between the thighs she nestled between.  She blew gently on her, the urge to tease just edging her urge to taste.

 

“Gidget!”

 

She could resist no longer.  Her mouth covered Franky’s hot flesh, steeped in arousal.  She loved every second of giving intimate pleasure to her girlfriend, and how obvious it was that her actions were loved just as much in return.  A hand was wound tightly in her hair, keeping her close.  The other hand grasped at the bedclothes, scrunching and balling them up into a fist.  The body under her shook and trembled.  When Franky came, Bridget felt a delicious surge of wetness in her mouth, the pulsing of Franky’s clitoris against her tongue.  Strong legs clamped tightly around her head, maybe to keep her there longer or maybe as a defence against the power of the orgasm.  Even so, she could still hear Franky calling her name.

 

Eventually, she was released.  She cuddled up to the still-shaking woman, gently stroking her rapidly rising and falling chest.  Franky took her hand and pressed it against her pounding heart.  “You do things to me.”

 

Franky propped herself on her side, running a hand over Bridget’s body.  “This dress looks hot on you.  Can’t decide if I want you in it or out of it.”  She lay on top of Bridget, straddling her and kissing her deeply.  The extra friction between them from the dress was sensual for a while, but Franky’s appetite demanded more.  “I think I want you out of it.”

 

The dress came off.  Franky peeled Bridget’s bra away, and then used it as a makeshift lasso around the back of Bridget’s neck to corral her into a kiss.  Franky played with her breasts, wickedly licking and sucking them.  It was driving her to distraction.  She touched herself through her underwear in an attempt to soothe the aching desire emanating from her sex.

 

“That’s hot.”  Franky watched intensely, studying the motion and pressure of Bridget’s hand.  “My turn.”

 

Bridget lay back on the pillows, her body growing tauter with each of her girlfriend’s strokes.  The variety of sensations was electrifying - sometimes Franky would rub through her underwear, the silk of her knickers leaving her tingling, and sometimes her lover’s fingers would touch her directly.  Franky pulled her underwear off and spread her legs wide.  Bridget’s eyelids closed when Franky’s tongue licked her, as if her brain had simply given up on receiving any other stimuli.  The air had suddenly got very thick, and she fought for each breath.  Her toes curled almost painfully.  And then she simply burst, a shattering release that flooded out of her.

 

Franky crawled back on top of her to kiss her.  She could taste herself on the lips that murmured sweetly to her.  Their kisses became more passionate again.  Their legs were still tangled up, and slowly their sexes found each other.   _Bumper to bumper_ , Bridget smiled to herself.  Franky rolled her hips to rub against her, their pleasure building over a gradual crescendo.  Bridget came again, moaning loudly into her lover’s kiss.  They kept going.  Bridget trusted Franky completely: they tried all manner of tribbing positions, learning how their bodies fit together and how they could make the other swoon in ecstasy.

 

Finally, they exhausted each other.  Bridget stretched out like Cleo, her cat, might have done.  She wiped through the sheen of perspiration that adorned her belly.  “You’ve worn me out,” she smiled.

 

Franky laughed and yawned at the same time.  She wrapped herself around Bridget.  “Wake me up if you wanna go again.  Goodnight, Gidget.”

  
Even the storm had worn itself out.  The rain pattered softly against the windows, lulling them quickly to a deep sleep.


End file.
